


Until The End of Days

by Eglantine



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Boromir Lives, Gen, an unholy blend of film and book canon sorry, injury mention, it's gen for now but god knows what will happen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:34:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29877792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eglantine/pseuds/Eglantine
Summary: Boromir survives, but his wounds and his shame lead him to part from the three hunters to try to improve matters-- and redeem himself-- in Edoras.(or, Boromir and Éowyn meet and work through their weird relationships to toxic masculinity together.)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	Until The End of Days

As the band of riders swarmed towards them, spears raised and horsehair streaming from their helmets, Boromir was grateful for the first time since leaving Amon Hen that he had indeed survived to depart that place. 

“I am known in these parts,” he said, stepping to Aragon’s side—a place he had not often stood these past days, his wounds and his shame driving him to lag at the back of their party as it raced across the countryside in pursuit of the orcs and their halfling captives. Aragorn and Legolas, though travel-stained, showed no sign of their hard pace—it was he and, to a lesser degree, the dwarf Gimli who gasped for breath, Boromir fighting back the pain of his wounded shoulder, the wounded arm and hand strapped close to his chest in vain hope of not excessively jostling the wound. 

“I had not thought it their way to be so wary of strangers,” said Aragorn. 

Nor had Boromir: but he was no stranger. He stepped forward and raised his uninjured arm. The riders had picked up too much speed to stop now, but they did not run them down at least, circling instead in a thundering ring of horses that slowed skillfully to a stop. The gathered riders parted to make way for the man Boromir knew at once to be their captain, even before he had removed his helmet. 

“Éomer, son of Eomund,” he said. “What news? Who are you hunting, that you chase down four men with fifty?” 

“Lord Boromir?” Éomer dismounted at once, sweeping his helmet off in the same fluid gesture. He took in Boromir with frank confusion and wonder—Boromir did not know Éomer well, but it took only brief acquaintance to know he was not a man who could keep his thoughts from showing themselves on his face. In that respect, they were alike. “We have long hoped to hear tidings of you. But who are these companions?” 

“Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” said the ranger, stepping forward, much to Boromir’s surprise. He could not remember hearing him willingly offer this name—but he was not surprised to see that it sparked no recognition in Éomer, nor did the names of the other companions when they were supplied, though Éomer could not hide his fascination.

“Éomer is nephew to Théoden King,” Boromir said when Éomer did not claim the title. Something like anger flickered across Éomer’s face. “But is there ill news from your uncle’s court?”

“I had rather hear your news than share mine,” Éomer said darkly. “My uncle has banished me—but I do not blame him. It is his right hand, his counselor, Gríma. I am sure Saruman has bought him.” 

“And so party of orcs may cross the Riddermark in peace,” Aragon said. 

“Not in peace,” Éomer replied. “We set upon them in the night.”   
“Did you!” burst in Gimli. “They carried two prisoners with them, our companions.” 

Guilt crept in at the edges of Éomer’s stern expression. “We saw none but orcs. We left none alive.” 

The words sunk into Boromir’s stomach like stones, and for a moment it seemed they would weigh him down entirely and send him sinking to the earth. Failed and failed again. He could not protect them from capture and now—

A hand on his arm brought him back to himself, and he raised his eyes to see Éomer at his side, his brows furrowed in concern. 

“You are pale,” he said, and his eyes flicked down to Boromir’s bandaged arm. “And you are injured.”

Boromir shook his head impatiently and shrugged Éomer’s hand away. “It is nothing.” 

“We have to go see,” Gimli said. “They’re small, the halflings, they may have escaped these horselords’ notice.” 

“I have never had cause to hope a slight against my skill might prove true,” Éomer said. “But for your sake, I will—but do not kindle your hopes too high. We burned the bodies, you can see the smoke, there.”

“Gimli meant no slight,” Aragorn cut in before Gimli could reply. “We have traveled far and hard, and only look for some hope it was not in vain. We will go see. But Boromir—” 

Boromir looked to Aragorn, surprised to be addressed. 

“Perhaps you should make for Meduseld,” he said. “See your wounds tended properly, and see to what can be done to persuade Théoden King away from Saruman.” 

Boromir’s throat tightened with anger. He had lost the halflings, it was for him to see the task through to its grim end. He had failed to resist the temptation of the ring and seen their Fellowship scattered, it was for him to do whatever he had to to reunite its remnants. 

And yet, he could not blame Aragorn for devising this pretense: he had betrayed the party’s trust. He had betrayed his own honor. He deserved to be sent away, and hardly deserved the thin shield for his honor Aragorn had contrived with these excuses

But before Boromir could reply—could be sure of how he wished to reply, in agreement or in anger—Éomer spoke.

“I would count myself your debtor, Lord Boromir, if you did this. I am sorry to leave my uncle in this state, but sorrier still to leave behind my sister unprotected,” he said. “Saruman grows bold, our lands are overrun, and yet our King makes no answer. Where I have failed, perhaps you will succeed. My uncle, I know, has ever had only praise for Boromir, son of Denethor.” 

Éomer was some ten years his junior, perhaps a little more. They had met seldom, and fought together less, and yet now Éomer looked upon him with admiration. Éomer saw no pretense in Aragorn’s words, only hope for an end of his own worries. Boromir did not deserve such a retreat into the safety of his reputation, a reputation he now no longer deserved. But—he almost laughed bitterly—he could not resist it. 

“I will go,” he said. 

+

The wind was high, but Éowyn found she was not troubled by it. It was as if there was a veil between herself and the world: she was aware of it, but it did not seem to touch her. She looked upon the fields beyond Edoras’s gates but did not really see them. Gríma did not like to leave the Golden Hall: at least here, on the terrace, she could be sure she was free from his gaze. And so she stood here, for there was nothing else, nothing left, to do. 

There was no point seeing to preparations for supper when her uncle would not eat, her cousin was gone, her brother was gone, the lords and ladies who once populated Meduseld had died or left, and so the meal would be nothing but an occasion for her to be consumed by Gríma’s piercing look.

A dark figure moving across the hills caught her eye. A rider, approaching their gate. She watched them—him, surely—make his way with no little speed. Who could it be? A captain would not ride alone. A messenger—but from who? And who that her uncle and Gríma would not simply turn away? 

Something sparked in Éowyn’s chest, and she glanced back towards the doors of the hall. The guards were not looking, they had not yet seen. If she waited until the rider made his way to her uncle’s presence, she would never know his errand without Gríma telling her. 

She gathered her skirts and hurried down the steps. 

The guards, to her surprise, were already opening the gates as she drew near. She was close enough now to see that the rider sat uncomfortably in his seat: one arm was bandaged and bound against his chest, and it was plain he suffered no little pain from it. But who was he, that the guards at the gate had not challenged him? 

The man slid down from his horse—no, not his. This banished her hesitation, and she strode forward.

“That is Hasufel!” she cried. “How did you come by this horse?” 

The man’s Grímace of pain turned to a grin. “There is a Rohirric greeting. Pardon me, lady, I need not ask who you are: you favor your brother. Lady Éowyn is your name, is it not?” 

She froze. “You have seen--?” 

But she stopped herself before she spoke the name, and held up a pale had to stop the man in turn before he could reply. “We should not speak of this. You are injured, let me bring you to where you can be tended. These men will see to Hasufel.” 

“You are kind, my lady, but I seek audience with Théoden King.” 

She shook her head—a sharp, quelling gesture—and motioned for him to follow her. Only when they were some paces from the guards did she speak: “If you appear before my uncle, you will be sent away. If you make it known you are a friend to my brother Éomer, it will be all the worse. If nothing else, let me see your wound tended and have word of my brother for myself, first.” 

He hesitated. “I do not like to slink in like a thief.” 

“And I do not like that a friend of Éomer’s will see the disgrace the Golden Hall has fallen into,” Éowyn replied. “But I do not know when I shall have word from him again.”

“He sent me to aid you, Lady Éowyn,” the man said. “I will follow your guidance.” 

The words seemed to pierce the veil between herself and the world and nearly brought tears to her eyes. To aid her? She did not think it could be done. And yet, knowing that Éomer rode away with her in his thoughts—that he looked out for opportunities to send her help—perhaps that thought alone was aid of a kind. 

“What is your name, sir?” said Éowyn. “I have been remiss, forgive me.”

“I am Boromir, son of Denethor.”

Éowyn stopped and her grey eyes grew wide. Her face, Boromir could see, was more practiced in concealment than her brother’s, but even she could not hide an admiration mirroring that which he had seen in Éomer’s eyes, almost an awe. 

“I have heard your name often, my lord,” she said softly. “My brother praises you above almost any man he has known.” She lowered her eyes. “I cannot send you to the King. I cannot let them dishonor you.” 

She could not bring herself to look upon the Steward’s son. But he did not need to see her face to feel the shame this confession brought her. It was the first time in many weeks he had felt such sympathetic kinship with anyone, his late companions not excluded. 

“Lead me to your healers, Lady Éowyn,” he said. “I will be most grateful for their care.” 

They could not enter the Golden Hall, and Éowyn did not trust they could remain unseen if they found some other way in. But there were riders’ quarters sitting empty with so many riders gone, and though it fell far short of the honor due to a lord of Gondor, Éowyn could not help but remember wryly the many times she had been told there was honor, too, in staying safe—in remaining alive. 

“Do you not mean to find a healer?” asked Boromir with a slight frown as he watched Éowyn gather together supplies left for the riders. 

She shook her head. “I would not have Gríma’s wrath fall upon anyone but myself. To see the bandages changed and wounds cleaned will not be beyond my small skill.” 

To speed the process, he began to carefully unwind the bandages Aragorn had applied, and then—he hesitated—she was a Princess of Rohan, no healer, but—and then to unfasten his shirt. Éowyn betrayed no bashfulness as she returned to his side and began to help him. 

“So you saw my brother?” she prompted as she began to work to clean the wound in his shoulder. “He was banished from court just days ago.” 

“So he said,” Boromir said, suppressing a flinch as she dabbed at his shoulder with a damp cloth. Aragorn had cut out the arrow that struck him there, but with days of running in dirty bandages, the wound needed cleaning. There was a second wound, in his side, and if not for Aragorn’s arrival there would surely have been a third and final strike to his chest. Most concerning to him was his sword-arm, a bloody mess after meeting with an orcish boot as he lay upon the ground. That bandage was darker with old blood than the rest. It occurred to Boromir perhaps Lady Éowyn intended to distract him from her work as much as to learn what he knew. 

So he told the tale of his encounter with Éomer, and she of her brother’s defiance and banishment, her uncle the King’s decline. 

“And these wounds?” she said. “How did you come by them?” 

“Orcs,” he said shortly. He could bring himself to say no more, though he knew it was as good as a lie to fail to do so. “You have done this before.” 

“I must learn some small ways to be useful,” Éowyn said. She knew well she had never learned as much as she could, or should. There was a hint of bitterness now in her voice. “These are the means allowed to me.” 

“What means would you prefer?” he asked. Hers was a tone he had heard many times before, from squires eager for battle, from guardsmen who resented their stationary post—from himself, when he was young, or even now when his father urged caution and delay. He had never thought to hear it from a woman. 

Éowyn shook her head. “It does not matter. Why have you come here? Only at my brother’s bidding?”

“In part,” he agreed. “And to speak to Théoden King. To see what might be done to weaken Saruman’s hold upon him, to rouse him to fight back.” 

“There is nothing to be done,” said Éowyn flatly. 

“That may be so, but we must try. Lady—” He hesitated. These were words for Aragorn to speak—or better yet, his brother. But he was the only one here now to speak them. “I, too, have looked upon the world as it now stands and been tempted by despair, but-”

“Do not speak to me of despair.” She turned suddenly, sharply away, under pretense of finding another bandage, though there was a clean length already in her hands. “What will you do for my uncle that my brother could not? That my cousin could not, that I could not? I told him of his own son’s death and he did nothing, said nothing. He did not even look at me. What will a stranger from Gondor do?” 

Her pale hands tightened on the white cloth. Boromir rose carefully. Speaking to ladies was a skill he had never taken the time to learn, so he spoke to her as he would a man, a young soldier: “Come now. Look at me.” 

She did. Her face was very pale and set, and there were no tears in her eyes, though he thought there perhaps would have been.

“We cannot tell what small thing will make a difference,” he said. Frodo was in his mind as he said it. The ring was in his mind. “I know better than to come upon a tower besieged and tell the captain there that I’ll easily see his troubles ended. You have long stood your ground here—and I think, often alone. I know the feeling.” 

“And what do you do in the face of that feeling?” Éowyn said. “I think you are not told to wait. You are not told to endure—you, who stand here with orc arrows in your side and news from Gondor. You call me captain to mock me—my brother used to do the same.” 

“I do not,” he said at once. “In all truth, Lady, I speak that way because I know no better way to speak. You’re right. In answer to that feeling, I ride out with my sword. But I have felt despair, and it has driven me to—to things for which I cannot forgive myself.” 

Éowyn had never seen a man look as this Lord of Gondor looked upon her now. No, not upon her: past her, his gaze fixed on something only he could see. She had never heard a man admit to despair. 

“Then what will you do?” she asked. 

“Do you not mean to ask ‘what have you done’?” he replied with a faint smile.

“Let that go for the present,” Éowyn said. “If you can help my uncle, I do not care.” 

“Then I will do what I can,” Boromir said, inclining his head. “But you must let me speak to the King. I swear I will not let them drive me away. I will not leave you, lady, never fear that.” 

He felt a bit foolish saying it: a courtly promise, one that Faramir would make. But he would make it good. He would not leave, at the very least, before Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli arrived, which would surely be soon. And even as he said it, he felt a tiny spark of—perhaps it was hope. Here was a task to do. Here was someone he could help, in whose eyes he could begin to rebuild the name of Boromir, son of Denethor. 

Éowyn could not think when she had ever been made such a promise—did not know until it was heard how desperately she had wished to hear it. 

“Let me see you bandaged first, my lord,” she said when she had recovered her voice. “Then I will not hinder you.”

She reached to undo the bandages on his arm, but he pulled away. 

“Leave that be,” he said, a little more gruffly than he meant. “It needs more tending than you can give, I fear. Let me see your uncle, Lady. There is no more time to spare.” 

\+ 

The Golden Hall of Meduseld was dim and empty—a handful of guards stood watch, including those who had taken Boromir’s sword and shield from him at the door, an insult he would hardly have borne if he had not first spoken with Lady Éowyn. She had slipped away to join the King, and to take her expected place beside his chair. 

The sight of Théoden so startled Boromir he almost broke his stride. It was some years since he had seen the King, but not enough to account for the change in his appearance: he seemed a hunched old man, withered and spent. A black-haired man lingered close by his side, murmuring in his ear—and it was this man, not the King, who spoke. 

“What news from Rivendell, Boromir son of Denethor?” He had a high, unpleasant voice. 

“I bring no tidings to any but Théoden King,” he replied, his temper piqued by his treatment at the door. 

“Whatever you speak…” The King’s words were soft, slow, and labored. “—Gríma may hear.” 

“Very well. Tidings of war I bring. You must rouse your people, Théoden King, and ready them to fight.”

“Lord Boromir stands before you, my King, and yet he speaks with the traitor Éomer’s voice,” said Gríma, in a murmur loud enough for Boromir to hear. 

“I speak no words but my own,” Boromir cut in, anger swelling. “I have seen for myself a troop of orcs marching openly across the Mark. You must act, my lord."

“What the King of Rohan must or must not do is surely not for the son of the Steward of Gondor to say,” Gríma replied. “We know well your people do not mean to aid us. We will seek the support of Saruman, who has always been loyal to us.” 

“Gondor aids you by fighting in the east.” In his flash of fury, it seemed to him the burning gold of the ring seared his eyes, and he closed them to block out the sight. 

“You see Lord Boromir is wounded.” Éowyn’s voice was low and soft. 

“True.” Boromir’s eyes flashed open in surprise at this reply from Gríma. Éowyn, too, looked momentarily startled. “Your niece is wise, my lord. From a gentler welcome will surely come a gentler answer.” 

“You are welcome, Boromir, son of Denethor,” Théoden wheezed. He looked to Gríma as he said it, as if to be sure his words were right. Part of Boromir wished to look away, ashamed on Théoden’s behalf. Instead he inclined his head, suspicious and unsettled by this sudden change. 

“I will bring you to the healers, my lord,” said Éowyn, quiet and dutiful, betraying no sign they had ever met. 

Boromir watched Gríma watch her cross to his side, and wondered whether Éomer in fact wished his sister kept safe not only from the forces of Saruman, the tides of war sweeping through the Mark, but someone here in Meduseld. With a last look at Gríma, Boromir turned away and followed Éowyn out of the hall. 

+

She came again to see him after the healer had come and gone. 

“You do not look well,” she said. “I will not trouble you long.”

“I’m well enough.” He felt pale and shaken still from the pain of the healer’s necessary prodding and jostling of his sword arm—the hand and arm broken, snapped by that orcish boot but likely enough, by her guess, to heal well. So she had bandaged it again, bound it in a sling to rest, and slowly the pain was ebbing to the steady dull ache that he could nearly ignore. “But I am glad you have come, there has been a question in my mind. Where is the King’s son? Where is Theodred? I have met him, and I am sure he cannot be of his father’s mind. Can he not lead riders, act?” 

Éowyn’s gaze flicked downwards. “Theodred is dead.”

“What?” Boromir leaned forward, startled, then sat back with a wince at the jolt of pain this sent through his arm. “I had not heard this. When?”

“But days ago.” Éowyn’s eyes filled with tears; he watched her set her jaw and master herself. “No order has been given for his funeral. I told the King, and it was as if he did not hear. He was wounded at the Fords of Isen, Saruman’s orcs have overrun the banks.” 

“I begin to see why you dare not trust any hope.” 

She was surprised to see him almost smile, though his look was weary. She stepped more fully into the room. 

“What will you do?” 

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “But I have spent many years arguing for action while my father and brother urge delay. I will find the words to sway him—and if I do not, when my companions arrive, they will know. There is one among them with far greater standing than I to persuade the King of the Mark.” 

“And what companions are these?” 

Neither of them had heard Gríma approach the open door. Éowyn shuddered to find him suddenly at her elbow. His hand twitched, as if he were momentarily tempted to reach to touch it. 

“Excuse me, I must go,” she said coldly. Perhaps Boromir would mistake her sudden change in tone, but very well. She pushed past Gríma in doorway. His fingers brushed the back of her hand as she went by, and she could not tell if it was by accident or not. She did not dare look back to judge from his face. After a moment, she heard the door to Boromir’s chamber shut.

“You have some business your King could not hear?” Boromir asked. He did not invite Gríma to sit, and the man did not move to. 

“King Théoden has much on his mind,” Grímasaid smoothly. “He need not trouble himself with every traveler. But I know where you have traveled from. And what you rode west to seek.” 

“Very well,” Boromir said slowly. Éomer thought Gríma was bought by Saruman; whatever the case, here was the man who guided the King in choosing stillness and delay while his lands were overrun. 

“It is nobly done,” Gríma says. “It requires great strength to stand against the darkness that is now upon us. And having faced it so long, fighting in the east.” 

“It is easy to fight knowing Rohan defends the lands to the west,” he replied. 

“And knowing the weapon of the enemy has been found?”

“I cannot speak of that,” he said. He lifted his chin and looked levelly at Gríma, daring him to find a trace of a lie in his face, in his voice. “I do not know where it is. In truth, I hardly know what it is, though I thought I did.” 

“I cannot think they did not trust a Captain of Gondor with the knowledge.” Gríma did sit then, drawing his dark robes around him in a gesture Boromir found inexpressibly distasteful in its tidiness. Every gesture seemed too considered, every word too weighed, as if they walked the path of a conversation Gríma had already perfectly mapped in his mind. 

“If Théoden King would speak of this matter, then I will tell him what I know,” he said. “But I have nothing more to say of it to you. And indeed, I think your mind and his should turn to your own land, your own people, and their defense.” 

“And is that not why you traveled west?” Gríma asked. “To seek the means to defend your people? It seems to me the two questions are one and the same. But let it go, for you have answered both: if the weapon is lost, there is no standing against the power of Mordor. And no means of defending our people save to submit.” 

Black fury seemed to cloud the edges of his sight, a storm of anger threatening to burst. “And is this the counsel you whisper to your King?” 

“Is it not what you have whispered to yourself?” 

“Never.” He was on his feet without quite realizing how he’d gotten there. “Never submit. Never that.” 

Too late he felt there was more in Gríma’s words than the sly murmurs of a subtle counselor. But already it had found purchase in the shadows of his mind, the darkness cast by the blazing light of the thought of the ring. What had he done in attacking Frodo except submit to its power, and the power of its master? 

He saw now the reason for Gríma’s swift and sudden change of heart: he had seen Boromir’s weakness. He had seen in him a man whose mind he could twist and turn from its purpose just as he had the King’s. Had not the Lady of Lórien seen the same? And were they wrong? 

“Get out.” He raised his eyes, and only then realized he had lowered them. “Go.” 

+

Éowyn did not make it far. She lingered at the end of the hall, waiting to see which of them would emerge first, how long Gríma would stay. When he emerged—not so long, she thought, perhaps not too long—he spotted her before she could slip away. She lifted her chin and met his eyes as he approached. 

“What did you do to him?” she said. “What did you say?” 

“Ah, my lady.” His voice was low and sad, soft with false regret. “These men of Gondor are not as strong as you have hoped.”


End file.
